


Brilliant

by fits_in_frames



Category: Harry Potter RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-17
Updated: 2006-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:23:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're still holding hands, but you aren't looking at each other: you're both mesmerized by the dance floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brilliant

**Author's Note:**

> _you're the boy with all the leather hips_  
>  _sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips_  
>  {franz ferdinand // michael}  
> 
> 
> For [](http://pourtant.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://pourtant.livejournal.com/)**pourtant**.

You go over again, in your head, the events leading to this, and smile despite yourself. _filming the same scene over and over, grabbing on to him as much as you can. playing poker afterwards with a couple of stagehands, exchanging nervous, weighted glances. both of you losing miserably, going back to someone's trailer for a concessional cup of tea. the casual mention of a nightclub, a blatant invitation. sneaking out of your trailer, getting on the bus, holding hands, brushing your knuckles on those unbearable leather trousers. the bouncer waving you in without checking for ID. and now._ Now.

You're still holding hands, but you aren't looking at each other: you're both mesmerized by the dance floor. There are scores of people--men, women, in all combinations, most of them under 25--moving to the music. Your feet itch to move, but you don't for fear of breaking the tight grasp he has on you. Suddenly, he tugs on your arm, and then you're moving down, down, down the stairs, losing yourself in the strobe light and what looks like confetti littered on the floor. Somehow, he finds an empty spot, and you instinctively press your left hip to his right, denim sliding easily against leather, rivets occasionally catching silently on each other. His lips are on your cheek, his hand up your shirt, his left leg between both of yours. Your hands leave his hips and go to his neck, his hair, pulling back so you can see his eyes, and finally you release all the pent-up tension from these few polite weeks in one ferocious kiss. He tastes faintly of peppermint and day-old coffee. He breaks the kiss almost as violently as you started it, and teases one corner of your mouth with his tongue, grinding his hips against yours in rhythm with the music.

He whispers in your ear, "Drink?" You nod, unable to speak. He deposits you in a chair, and you push your hair, heavy with perspiration, out of your eyes. He returns a moment later with two unlabeled bottles, perching himself on a nearby table, watching you. Even though this isn't your first drink, you still cough on the first swallow. He laughs at you, but there's nothing mean-spirited about it. "Brilliant," he says, grins and takes a swig. When he speaks again, it sounds as though it is through a badly-wired microphone. It takes you a moment to realize how fast the alcohol has gone to both of your heads.

"I'm really--really honored to be working with you, Daniel. I mean, really. Really re--"

You stand up and place two fingers of your free hand on his lips and he doesn't quite know what to do. He crosses his eyes, trying to see your fingers on his mouth, then looks up and breaks into a warm, wet giggle against them. He pulls away, scratches the back of his head--a habit you haven't gotten used to yet--looking down at the bottle in his hands. He suddenly leaps up, finishes his drink, and tosses the bottle onto the table. You do the same, though it leaves to more light-headed than before. He puts an arm around your shoulders and leads you off somewhere.

"You don't drink much, do you? I mean, that wasn't strong stuff."

You glance at him, and shake your head, which makes it worse.

He laughs again, looking down. "I didn't really start to drink until I was 18. I don't really do it all that much now." His feet seem to be moving automatically, guiding both of you to avoid what seems like hundreds of pairs of feet. His hand on your arm is oddly comforting. "You'll get used to it."

He pushes a door that says "GENTLEMEN" open, and rough carpet changes to slick tile. The bathroom is lit with the same dim, colored light, but there is less noise, less of a crowd in here. He stops to take a piss and you wait against the mirror on the opposite wall, noticing the patch of perspiration growing from his lower back. He grabs your hand and you're briefly confused when he leads you further inside. He leans each stall door until one opens, and pulls you in with him, pinning you against the door and locking it with one swift motion around your waist. He smashes his lips into yours, and you can't tell where that trickle of blood is coming from, but quickly decide it doesn't really matter. He slaps the door above your head with his palm and moans when you slip your hand inside the waist of his trousers.

His mouth suddenly moves down, to your chin, your neck, pausing on the bump of your collarbone. You push your arse against the door and your hands against the stall walls to steady yourself as he carefully unbuttons your shirt, tongue, lips, teeth trailing in the wake. Getting onto his knees, he skillfully unbuttons your jeans, slips them down past your hips, then pushes your boxers to join them. Teasing you with his tongue, he rests his hands on your knees, holding you up. You close your eyes when he finally takes you, warmly, wetly, in his mouth. _He's done this before_ , you think: his tongue knows exactly where to move, where to stop, where to concentrate. His lips are slick with saliva and precome, dragging up and down. One of your hands involuntarily goes to his hair, and your fingers get easily tangled in it.

You moan loudly as your hips arch up, and you are thankful that no one could possibly hear you in here. He pulls and pushes, pulls and pushes until you can't tell if the alcohol or the lighting or the boy on your cock is making you feel like your head is about to explode. You grip his hair tightly, twisting it, pulling it, but he doesn't seem to notice, and you come into his mouth, hard. He pulls back, splutters, and you open your eyes just in time to see him turn and throw up into the toilet. _He hasn't done this before_ , you think as you slide down, pulling up your jeans so you can spread your legs properly, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know you should be concerned, but you're not.

He turns back to you, wiping his mouth, leaning his head against the porcelain, legs still tucked under him. You both sit there for a moment, panting.

"That," you say finally.

"Yeah," he says, "that."

"I didn't know you--"

"I didn't either."

You lean over, and grin despite yourself. "Brilliant," you say, and kiss him messily on the cheek.


End file.
